


Ned's Return

by van_der_ay



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van_der_ay/pseuds/van_der_ay
Summary: Ned gets sent back to before it all came crashing down... Or, an exploration of what could have been.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I’ve been a fan of fanfiction for a long time and finally decided to publish one of my own. I hate to pull _that_ card, but English is not my first language and I am writing this without a beta, so I apologise beforehand for any mistakes made, grammatical or more of the “accent” nature. If you are interested in stories with incredibly realistic depiction of GoT-era speech and/or beautifully written prose, there are many fics among my favourites which I invite you to read. I am satisfied in aiming to provide a story with a believable and interesting plot, written in a language that is not too grating. Reviews are a way to help me in achieving that.**
> 
> **This story is basically a form of continuation of a reply I wrote to a thread on Reddit posing a question along the lines of “You are Ned Stark in 298 AC and have been given all knowledge of the show/books. What do you do?” This story does not begin in 298 AC, nor is this Ned Stark given all knowledge of future events – just the knowledge that I have arbitrarily decided to give him. Not that it will always do him much good, considering the rippling effect his actions will have.**
> 
> **As for the time-travelling itself, many authors who write these sort of stories try to incorporate it into the story somehow, calling on magic cast by characters or even introducing deities like “Fate”. Obviously some form of magic was involved, but it might or might not be addressed in the story. I believe the user drakensis has done this very well in his story _Wearing Robert’s Crown_.**
> 
> **-xxx-**

**Disclaimer: ASoIaF belongs to GRRM.**

**-xxx-**

**Jory Cassel**

The night was dark, filled only with the rushing sound of the Weeping Water. It was a pleasant sound that clashed with the nature of their mission, but aided them in masking their sounds.

Not that they much needed the help, with the eight Crannogmen in their party. The men and women of the Neck had provided them with a set of grey and dark brown clothing specifically made for blending in with the muddy forest ground around them. They had also had them roll on the ground to cover their scent. Jory and his nineteen companions, Stark men-at-arms, had reluctantly gone along with the idea. They were hundreds of leagues deep into Bolton territory; failing their mission meant death or a fate far worse in the dungeons of the Dreadfort.

He had loyally followed his liege Ned Stark in putting the Greyjoys back into their place. Jory had been there, along famous warriors like the Kingslayer and Thoros of Myr with his flaming blade as they had stormed Pyke. This type of fighting, cloaks and daggers in the night, was… different. Both better and worse. Pyke had been a battlefield, a storming of a castle, the visage of dead bodies strewn everywhere. It was bloody and gory and still gave him nightmares, but at least he had not had to constantly live in fear of being detected.

They had stayed away from all roads, riding through rough terrain to a dilapidated tower in the northern Hornwood forest. There they had waited for weeks before receiving a message by raven to deploy. Using detailed maps that had been left in the small holding, along with food and water, they stayed well away from any populated areas or lands belonging to belligerent lords. Eddard Stark was known for his honour, sense of justice and kind hand. What they were conspiring to do went against everything he stood for: assassinating a (seemingly) loyal bannerman.

The Crannogman leading the party stopped and held up a hand. A come-hither gesture brought Jory to him, and he pointed out what he had seen: smoke rising up from beyond a hill.

“You and your men stay here while me and mine go take a look,” the short statured man whispered. Jory nodded and watched mutely as they grouped up to talk before scattering in different directions in pairs, blending in with the snow and disappearing before his very eyes. All but the leader, Hyet Fenn, who crawls up to the hill to dare a look over the crest.

The Stark men await them there in the trees and bushes, keeping a careful watch of the garrons they had brought along. A time passed, what felt like hours, but was probably minutes, before Hyet crouched his way forward to us.

“Lord Stark’s intelligence was right… Lord Bolton and his escort are here on their way back from the Whitehills,” he spoke.

“So we managed to catch up with them,” he replied back in the same low tone, relieved.

“Aye, though he brought along a substantial guard of forty men.”

The men grumbled but Jory shook his head.

“We have the element of surprise. Furthermore, they are expecting brigands or wildings, not us and… them,” he retorted back, before turning back to the Reed bannerman. “What’s the plan?”

“’tis simple,” he began, grabbing a twig to draw in the snow before them. He drew the camp with the various tents strewn around a middle one belonging to Roose Bolton himself. The plan itself really was simple: the Crannogmen would begin by picking away at the sentries in simultaneous effort, before we all would send off burning arrows into the tents. As the camp descended into confusion, the rest of us would come down in an organised line to cut away at the unprepared men, while the crannogmen would lend ranged support from the other side. No witnesses were to be left alive, but the primary objective was obviously to kill the lord himself.

Hyet stopped in his explanation and tilted his head. Jory realised he was trying to listen to something and tried to catch on but failed, hearing only the sounds of wind and the singing of birds.

“Get your men ready while I relay instructions to the rest of my people,” he said before returning to the hill.

The men in question did not need to be told twice, checking their hauberks before covering them in ragged fur. Jory did the same and within minutes he was surrounded by a gathering of wildlings armed with castle forged steel, sturdy ironwood bows and oil-tipped arrows. Ready, they inched their way to Hyet, who laid making… bird noises.

Men made strange sounds when they died, Jory knew, but they were too far away to hear them. Instead, bird sounds confirmed their deaths for us.

“Nock and light your arrows,” Hyet instructed, moving to the crest of the hill with the rest of Jory’s men fanned out behind. Three people quickly got their arrows on fire and helped out the rest of them. The fire lit up the previously dark night so much that they almost had to avert their eyes. Fortunately, they did not have to aim very well.

“Draw, my men should be out of the way by now.” He mumbled the last part. Just to be safe, Hyet held the next command back for an additional fifteen seconds. The men-at-arms kept their arms steady. “Aim at the northwestern edge and… Loose!”

The plan worked better than Jory expected. The tents quickly caught aflame and in the confusion, the Bolton horses ran rampant across the camp, trampling men in their sleeps. Shouts of confusion and pain filled the air and the next stage of their plan began.

Hyet slinked off to the side to do his part while the men of Winterfell discarded their bows. They quickly mounted their rides and rode around the hill to come up to the Boltons from the flatter terrain in the south. The Northern garrons, while far from fast and strong warhorses, actually served them better as they could deftly find their footing on the uneven ground despite the meagre light conditions.

Their opponents did not immediately catch on to the fact that they were under attack. Their sentries had been slain by camouflaged Crannogmen assassins, the corpses quickly pulled away. The remnants of the “rain” of twenty lit arrows were rapidly burning up with the tents, which the Bolton guards were doing an admirable job of beginning to quench. That was the situation the previously outnumbered riders flanked into, swords raised.

Jory saw at least five men be trampled by their modest cavalry rush, and another five be sliced open. The men on the other side of the camp turned to defend themselves but received only arrows or daggers in the back for their trouble.

Before long, the fighting was reduced to basically a last stand: Lord Bolton and two soldiers. A couple of their brethren had ran off to try to escape but would quickly be hunted down.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this?” the Dreadfort lord called out in that cold and soft voice of his. He was hunched over due to a limp; an arrow from Hyet’s men had caught him in the leg. The poison was spreading through his body by the seconds and it was showing in how he was struggling to hold up his sword. “You are not wildlings or-” he collapsed to a knee before he could finish the sentence.

The men, who to their credit were loyal enough to falter at seeing their lord crumble, were quickly beset and killed by their numerically superior opponents. The lord himself fell further onto his side in a undignified heap.

 “Flaying is a crime punishable by death in the North, Lord Bolton. We are your executioners, sent by Lord Stark,” Jory stated as three of his men came into the clearing dragging two corpses, followed by another two Crannogmen doing the same with one corpse.

“Curse… you…” the lord panted out and then tilled. The milky pools that were his eyes looked like big drops of water turned into ice.

Jory and his men eyed the Lord grimly, considering the ramifications of just what they had done.

“That was the difficult part,” Hyet stated from the side.

“Aye,” Jory muttered and shook his head. “Come on lads, there’s still more work to do.”

-x-

Weeks later found Jory and Hyet in the Lord Stark’s solar, kneeling before their lord and Jory’s uncle.

“Rise,” the lord ordered.

The flames in the hearth were flickering due to the howling winds without, creating long shadows along their grim faces that made the whole situation feel even more ominous.

“Did you succeed?”     

 “Aye, my Lord,” Jory answered for them both. “We delivered your justice.”

“Good,” the Lord of Winterfell affirmed with a nod. He turned to stand before the hearth, leaving them staring at his back. “And what of the bastard?”

“We dealt with him and… planted the bodies there, as you bid,” Hyet replied.

The lord turned to them and met their eyes.

“You have done a great service to the North, my men, though I fear I asked too much of you.”

Hyet’s face curled in a grimace and Jory shook his head.

“No, my Lord. It was necessary.”

“Yes, the man’s despicable son needed to be put down, and the lord himself for turning a blind eye to his actions.”

“Oh?” Ser Rodrik spoke up from his spot, looking confused. Ned Stark had a grim but knowing look on his face.

“We discovered that the Bolton bastard and his men would use hunting dogs to hunt local peasant girls for sport. We came upon one such scene and rescued the poor lass.”

“Another two girls were found in his house, flayed, along with the remains of others… We gave mercy to them both.”

Had the circumstances been different, Jory would have found the sight of his uncle’s horrified face humorous.

“And what of the girl you rescued?” Lord Stark prodded.

“She saw us in the Bolton armour we had pilfered. She fainted of exhaustion, so we set the scene up as you instructed and left her not too far from the nearest village.”

“Good work,” Lord Stark said and walked over to his desk. He procured a small parcel and a scroll, both covered by the Stark direwolf seal, along with a jingling pouch.

“I suspected that you would be successful in your endeavours so I had these prepared in advance for Howland. Give him my regards.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Ser Rodrik, have Hyet and his men fed and taken cared of before their ride home.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

The dismissal had been clear and they both exited, leaving Jory and the Stark alone.

“Here, payment for a job well done,” the older man said and handed Jory the pouch. Jory caught a flash of gold; one golden dragons for each and every one of his men. The equivalent of two and a half year’s pay for the hardship of a few weeks. That amount of money could ruin lesser men, but the men-at-arms who had accompanied Jory had been carefully chosen. They were not greenboys who would rush to spend it all on expensive drink and women, but rather veterans with families of their own. Good men with bigger things in their lives than themselves.

“And for secrets to be taken to the grave,” Jory finished. “I will go distribute it at once… Discretely.”

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

-x-

Something had changed in his liege lord, Jory mused as he made his way down to Winter Town to personally deliver his men’s rewards. The honourable Ned Stark of old would have called for the Lord Bolton’s arrest and that of his bastard son, attempted to give him the fair and transparent trial he believed every man and woman were due… and suffered a civil war in his lands as a consequence. Instead, he had carefully planted spies in the Dreadfort’s court and lands and bid his time until the Lord stepped out of the comfort of his castle to send a mixed team of grizzled Stark and surprisingly talented Reed men to discretely take him out and pin the blame on his monster of a son.

How had he found out about the bastard anyway? Had the informants always been there, keeping the lord abreast of the tragedies the lowborn of the Weeping Water were forced to suffer? The fact that the Red Kings of old were terribly cruel and sadistic was known by many, but it was shocking and even ironic that Roose Bolton and the bastard son whose crimes he had abetted by keeping him hid away had taken it upon themselves to keep that despicable tradition going. The scenes at the miller’s house would come to fuel his nightmares for years to come.

In that moment however, Jory felt a strong measure of pride. Pride that he and his house enjoyed the privilege of serving  a house like the Starks, who worked to ensure the well-being of all Northerners.


	2. Gendry

_“You saw the boy. Such a strong boy. Those hands of his, those hands were made for hammers. He had such promise, I took him on without a fee.”_  – Tobho Matto to Eddard Stark

**Gendry**

“That’s Winterfell, boy. The first Stark built it eight thousand years ago and it’s been their home ever since,” the older man’s gruff voice explained from behind. “Might be yours as well if you’re lucky.” Gendry nodded slowly, eyes wide in wonder. Chuckling, Harwin sent the horse into a trot forward.

Gendry had only seen its like twice: the Red Keep in King’s Landing, looming above from someone’s hill; and Moat Cailin, which they had crossed a week previous. The first was something he had never approached, only seen from afar in Flea Bottom. The second was just a ruin, though Harwin had pointed out the workers milling about it working to repair it.  _“Lord Stark has great plans for it, no doubt. Him and that Marsh Lord,_ ” Harwin had stated when they stopped at an inn alongside the road after the castle, just recently built. None of the other keeps they had seen along the Kingsroad could really hold a candle to those three, being mostly towers.

When they had finally arrived at the outer gates and dismounted the horse, he felt incredibly small. Cloaked armed men in leather armour greeted Harwin and allowed them passage, while more peered down at them from high atop the walls.

“Lord Stark knows you’re here, Harwin,” one man said, receiving a thanks in response.

They continued beyond what Harwin called the South Gate, passing by a smithy into a big open area called the courtyard. Men were training there in groups, all under the watchful eye of an older man with his beard styled in a peculiar way.

“Tha’ there is Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms. The man’s taught me all I know about fightin’. I’d be down there doing drills with the rest of them if I didn’ have to deliver you.”

With a hand on his back Harwin steered him up an opening in the wall that enclosed the courtyard, trudging up an incline. Gendry barely felt the weakness in his legs that came from sitting on a horse for hours, mind preoccupied by other things. Such as the meeting with the man who had, for whatever reason, taken him from his home.

Growing up in Flea Bottom, some of the kids Gendry had known had disappeared off the streets they lived at. Many simply died of hunger or sickness. He had seen a couple of guys not much older than him be dragged away by the gold cloaks, while some of the older girls were seen weeks later at one of the brothels.

Saddest of all must have been Wat, who Gendry had found dead one morning in a back alley with his throat slit. He had mourned him the most because Wat had been kind to him, even going so far as to share delicious bread he had pilfered from the Street of Flour.

Out of all the people who had disappeared from Flea Bottom, Gendry doubted anyone had disappeared like he had. One night, three men had surrounded him. He had tried to fight them off but to no avail as they bound him, gagged him and dropped him in a sack. An old man had briefly inspected him but it was all darkness after. Dropped on a cart and brought out of the city, they had eventually released him after half a day’s travel. The men apologised to him and had provided him with food and drink he had reluctantly accepted.

They rode further and further away from the only place he had known, until ultimately stopping at an inn simply known as the Crossroad Inn. Once there, they had handed him over to Harwin, a kind-faced Northerner in his early twenties who had finally explained to him what was going on.

_“I’m here to take you to my Lord. He was friends with your father and wants to do good by you.”_

Gendry had had many opportunities to escape from Harwin, especially considering that he was only one and not three. Trusting strangers was not a good way to survive in Flea Bottom, but even if claiming that some lord knew his father was not convincing enough, the steady supply of food was good enough to keep him compliant. Harwin had also kindly provided him with a change of thicker clothes and a coat, to help him deal with the change in weather.

“Your journey across the Realm’s come to an end boy. That’s the big man himself,” Harwin stated as they finished the small climb. They were greeted by the sight of a man and a boy, who shared similar looks. They both had long faces, dark hair and grey eyes, though the boy’s hair was closer to black. Both of those eyes were peering at him with interest, and it made him feel nervous.

“My Lord,” Harwin began, giving the man a deep bow. “I have brought him to you. It’s him, right?”

Later, Gendry would reflect that the comment was made in jest. But it took him completely by surprise, filling him with dread. What if they had mistaken him for someone else? What if this was all a big misunderstanding? What would they do with him then? He began to consider various situations, of being taken outside the castle walls and left to try to find his way home, the nice clothes provided taken from him… Or worse.

The chuckle that came from the lord’s lips did nothing to dispel his worries.

“You are Gendry of Flea Bottom, are you not?”

He was quick to nod at that.

“What was the colour of your mother’s hair?”

That question threw him off. His mother had died some years past and he would often think of her and her songs.

“Yellow hair,” he replied, voice thick with emotion. Harwin’s hand came down and gripped his shoulder. “M’lord,” he added, quietly.

“Indeed. Yet, you are of black hair and blue eyes. This is the boy I asked for, Harwin, you need not worry. Go speak to Ser Rodrik about your reward. You are dismissed.”

With a final squeeze Harwin left him there, making them three.

“Jon, this is Gendry Waters, my friend’s son,” he introduced, gesturing to him. “As my bastard, it falls to you to show Gendry around. He has come all the way from King’s Landing and has no one here. Show him the hospitality of the North.” The boy’s, Jon’s, eyes seemed to lit up.

“Gendry, this is my son, Jon Snow. I have other children by my wife Lady Catelyn, whom you will meet at supper tonight. Jon, show him to his quarters. He will be living in the one next to you.”

That said, the lord walked off, leaving Gendry feeling like he should chase him down to get his questions answered. Instead, he was left with Jon, who beckoned him forward and began to walk towards a great building with walls made of stone.

“This is the Great Keep,” he said, pushing open a door and allowing Gendry to enter after. The contrast in temperature made Gendry stop in surprise. “Old Nan and Maester Luwin said that Bran the Builder built it above hot springs. The hot water flows through the floors and walls, making it warm.”

How could water flow through walls? And what kind of a name was Maester? Jon said no more on the topic however, only taking them further through a confusing set of passages and stairs – even for someone who could claim to know Flea Bottom like the back of his hand – before stopping in front of a door.

“That there is my room,” Jon said with a small tilt of his lips, looking at the door in between Gendry’s and the wall. “So this must be yours.” Jon then gave him an infectiously eager and expectant look. Excited, he threw open the door.

The room was dominated by a bed in the middle of the room, covered in furs and as long as twice his height. On one side was a hearth, already filled with firewood. On the other side was a chest of drawers, already filled with various garments. All of them his. All of it prepared for him.

He blinked away tears, embarrassed. Only babies and stupid children cried, not a big boy like him. Wat had told him that, called him a big boy and ruffled his hair when the taste of warm bread had brought him to tears.

“Do you like it? It’s just like my room, but mirrored.”

“I… I love it,” he admitted. Then, remembering Harwin, he hastily added, “M’lord!”

Jon looked shocked and hurriedly tried to explain.

“You musn’t call me that! I am just a bastard, like you. My father is the Lord of Winterfell, but his Lady wife is not my mother. That is why my name is Jon Snow, and yours is Gendry Waters.”

“Waters?”

“Yes… If you’re a bastard from the North like me, they call you Snow instead of your father’s name. Bastards from the Crownlands are called Waters.”

“Oh.” Hadn’t Lord Stark said something about that before? He knew what the word bastard meant, had even suspected he himself was one since his mother had never talked about his father. But Gendry did not know much about the words – some very difficult –  that the rich used. And since Lord Stark had introduced Jon as his son, he had just assumed.

“How can you not know these things? Didn’t your father tell you? Didn’t your father’s servants and trueborn children call you names?”

“I-I have never met my father,” he said, lowering his head. “I lived in Flea Bottom in King’s Landing. Many of my friends also never knew their mothers and fathers. One day, some men took me and I was brought here to Lord Stark. I still don’t know who my father is.”

“Oh…” Jon echoed, surprised. “But what about your mother?”

“She died when I was six. I don’t remember much, besides her hair and eyes and her voice when she would sing.”

 “I never knew my mother. I have asked Lord Stark about her, but he never tells me anything besides ‘ _I’ll tell you all about your mother when you are older, Jon’._  And Lady Stark wants nothing to do with me… Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Theon all sleep upstairs in rooms twice the size of ours, with servants attending to all their needs, while I have to live alone down here.”

The mood was sombre and the air heavy in the wake of their words. Gendry had not talked about his mother since she died, but that day she had been mentioned twice already.

As for Jon, he felt surprised at his own candour. He had never spoken to anyone about his bastardy and the feelings of resentment that came with it, but ten minutes with the bastard next to him and he was revealing things he had never revealed before.

“But it can’t be that bad if you get to sleep in a room like this every night, in a huge castle like Winterfell. Back in Flea Bottom, I once had to sleep with ten others on the floor in a room smaller than this because it rained so much!”

“Really!?” Jon asked, eyes big.

“Yes! And one of the others, Tyl I think, wet himself so we all ran out into the rain while old auntie Leslie came to wipe it up!”

The story made them both chuckle, which turned into laughs. Jon’s quiet and reserved way of laughing contrasted heavily with that of Gendry’s, which was loud and merry, bouncing off the walls of the room.

“Do you want to go explore the rest of Winterfell?” Jon offered when they had settled down.

“Yes!” Gendry agreed.

-xxx-

Gendry and Harwin had eaten at noon on the road and arrived not too long after. That allowed for quite the bit of exploring.

Their first stop was the smith, where Gendry became acquainted with Mikken. He had watched mesmerised as the smith banged away at the hot metal with his hammer, forcing it into whatever shape he wanted it to become. Jon had taken notice of his fascination and politely asked the man if they could help somehow. Mikken laughed, handed them each a hammer and gave them instructions on what to do. Lifting the hammers was a hard task by itself, let alone swinging them with any great force. Still, by helping each other out and working in unison they proved themselves not completely useless. At one point the smith decided that they had helped/distracted him enough and shooed them out. Despite that they left in high spirits.

Right beside the smithy were the stables. Jon introduced him to Hullen, who tended to the horses as master of horse. He was surprised to hear that Hullen was Harwin’s father, but the resemblance became obvious once that had been pointed out. The master of horse was busy with work so they decided to not bother him much.

The next place Jon took him was the Godswood, a massive forested area within the castle walls. Gendry had seen a lot of nature on his journey to the North, even slept in it most of the time. He had come to like those nights, as comfortable as it was to stay at an inn. The life appealed to him with its lack of people, fresh air and natural smells – very much unlike Flea Bottom, which was crowded, smelly and noisy. That he would be able to come to the Godswood whenever he wanted pleased him greatly.

They played a game where one of them would have to find and chase the other until he could manage to touch his opponent, after which the roles would reverse. When they grew tired of that Jon taught Gendry how to climb trees, which kept them busy for just as long. The last thing they did before leaving was to visit the weirwood tree, the same one that had been there since thousands of years. The heart tree’s carved face spooked Gendry as his mind superimposed the image of Wat’s face. The crimson sap pouring through like blood only made the association stronger. The wind blowing through made leaves sway, like bloody hands ready to engulf you and…do something with you.

“Lord Stark once told me that no one can tell a lie in front the heart tree, in the presence of the Old Gods.”

“The Old Gods?”

“Aye. We do not believe in the Seven here in the North, but in the Old Gods.”

Gendry would give these Old Gods heir due; he had never felt anything like it then in the ratty sept of Flea Bottom. He only went there for the rock hard bread that had to be dunked in the accompanied broth to become edible.

Jon did not feel like praying so he suggested they vacate the premise, an idea Gendry quickly agreed to. Their energy was yet to be completely spent.

“Do you want to practice with me?” Jon asked, making his way to the armoury.

“Practice what?”

“Sword fighting!”

“I’ve never held a sword before Jon,” Gendry admitted. Though he had held knives and daggers. Flea Bottom was filled with those.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. I’m the best at swords here in Winterfell.”

“Really?”

“Well, out of me, Robb and Theon at least.”

“Robb and Theon?”

“Robb is my half-brother and the heir to Winterfell. Theon is my father’s ward, the heir to the Iron Islands.”

“Oh,” Gendry said, following Jon into the armoury. He watched as the dark haired boy fished around in some sets, bringing out padding, shields and short wooden swords. Jon said that Ser Rodrik insisted on them wearing it, and real steel had to wait until they were older. Gendry was no craven, and had fought with fists against other boys who wanted to take what was his, but the idea of being struck by the thick wooden swords was daunting by itself, let alone by cold steel. He welcomed any protection he could get.

“Where are they, the other boys?” Gendry asked as they stepped out into the courtyard. The paddings were stiff and took a little getting used to, but Jon seemed to have no trouble moving about in it.

“They are with Lady Stark and the septa in the sept,” Jon said with a grimace. “I am not welcome there because bastards are sinful.”

“Anyone could go into the sept in Flea Bottom,” Gendry added unhelpfully.

“I don’t care about some stupid Southern Gods anyway,” Jon said, defiant. “Now, get into your stance.”

Gendry raised his sword up.

“I think your feet are too close to each other. Also, you should turn your body like this.” Jon showed him and he tried to replicate. It was hard to think of all the things, and sometimes Jon would look a little unsure himself and would have to go into his own stance, but he did not think it was that bad.

Then Jon showed him some easy moves. He showed him how to attack and defend, and even counter-attack. The slightly older boy who was solemn and a little meek at times looked like he knew what was doing, making him look older. That he was best with the sword out of all the children did not seem farfetched.

“You attack me and I defend. I can only counter-attack,” Jon ordered and Gendry obliged.

He came at him with an over hand swing that Jon easily blocked with his shield, pushing it away and leaving Gendry exposed to a swing that struck his padded shoulder. It stung, but Jon was obviously trying to not hurt him much.

“Keep your shield up.”

The sparring continued until the sun disappeared and even a little beyond that. They switched roles several times and Jon almost always won. The Northern bastard would block or parry his thrusts and swings, opening him up for a hit or outright disarming him. As someone used to cocky children boasting and rubbing their victories in your face, Jon’s humble and helpful attitude took the sting off the many defeats.

The one time Gendry got a hit in was when he dropped his shield, grabbed the sword with both hands and started hitting him with all the strength he could muster. The sheer amount of hits and the desperation that laced them was enough to overwhelm even Jon, who lost grip of his sword and had to rely on his shield. Put on the back foot, he tried to step back to get some breathing room… only to snag his heel and be sent unceremoniously on his back, arms spinning and torso open for a savage hit.

Jon laid on his back, cradling his padded stomach and trying to recover the air that had been knocked out of him. Worry gnawed at Gendry, worry that he had hurt and possibly alienated the only friend he had made within at least two thousand leagues. His feelings must have been shown, for Jon gave a weak chuckle and gingerly came to his feet.

“I think that’s enough. It’s time for supper,” he announced, leading them back to the armoury to deposit their stuff.

-x-

Gendry and his fellow bastard trickled into the great hall after a pair of men-at-arms who proceeded to take a seat close to the doors along their brethren, far from the raised podium at the other end where Lord Stark sat, alongside a woman with red head and a bunch of children.

Jon seemed to change before his very eyes. Gone was the quiet boy who so proudly had shown him around the massive castle of his ancestors deflated into a meek shadow of himself. His body language turned from fighter to that of a servant with shoulders hunched together and head and chest down.

The answer to why Jon was showing so much submissiveness became obvious when Genry was close enough to see the mean glare being levelled at him by whom he presumed to be Lady Stark. Lord Stark on the other hand simply smiled at him and stood up, bringing him the attention of everyone in the hall. The children in particular were curious to see who it was. The attention made him flush a little.

“Did Jon show you around Winterfell, Gendry?” Lord Stark asked with a kind face.

“Yes, m’lord,” Gendry answered meekly.

“Good, good. Allow me to finally introduce you to the rest of the family, Gendry Waters. You will be meeting them every day for the foreseeable future.”

Introductions for them all followed then. Lady Stark, or Lady Catelyn Star of House Tully, gave him the smallest of nods and an intense stare for just him, one not hostile.

Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, both like Jon older than Gendry, gave him a respectful greeting and arrogant smirk respectively. He appreciated the former but the latter made him want to wack the older boy’s face with that wooden blade he had left in the armoury.

Sansa Stark, who Gendry bashfully noted was very pretty like her mother, took after the Lady in mannerism as well. She gave him the bare minimum of attention she thought he deserved, eyeing his dirty clothes disdainfully, before turning back to nibbling daintily at her cake.

Arya Stark, the five-year-old little girl who looked the most like Jon, stared at him wide eyed for a moment. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she made a face and stuck out her tongue.

“Arya!” Lady Stark scolded. “That is not how a lady behaves to her guests!” The grey-eyed girl merely crossed her arms and looked rebelliously to the other side.

The littlest of the Starks, four-year-old Bran, or Brandon, instantly became Gendry’s favorite (after Jon) when he clumsily stood up from his chair and eagerly tried to shake his hand. The smile, the wide eyes and the eagerness made for quite the adorable boy. The friendliness, despite coming from a little boy, definitely made him feel a bit better.

“With that kind of charm he’ll make for an excellent Lord of Moat Cailin one day,” Lord Stark told him with a chuckle.

That statement undid whatever ease he had felt. The little boy in front of him would one day inherit the other big castle they had seen. And his father, the man with the kind face who had had him brought north ruled a kingdom half the size of the Realm if Harwin was to be trusted… A kingdom which would one day go to Robb. Also, didn’t Jon say Theon was the heir to some islands?”

“Now that you know everyone, take a seat next to Jon and enjoy the food before it’s become completely bereft of warmth.” Jon had taken a seat on the right, putting Lord Stark and Arya in between him and Lady Stark. Gendry found a seat in front of him with his back to the entrance, next to Brandon. A plate and a cup had already been placed there, as well as cutlery. But, really, by what rights did Gendry have to sit at the table, with the lord and all the heirs and ladies? Because Lord Stark had known his father? Who was this father of his anyway? What was his name? Why had he never met him? Had he ever tried looking for him? If so, how could he fail where Lord Stark had succeeded?

“Try the venison, Gendry. The hunters just brought it back today from the Wolfswood. Jon, help him.”

Jon dutifully took his plate and ladled strips of venison in broth on it, followed by a loaf of bread and some greens Gendry knew not the name of; serving himself at the same time. The smell was heavenly and the taste the same, doubly so by the sudden emptiness in his stomach that struck him just then. A kick to his shin made him look up at Jon, who gave him a pointed look. Then, gesturing, he made a show of finely cutting the venison into small pieces, forking them and small pieces of the greens together. When he put it in his mouth, he chewed it slowly with his mouth pursed together. Gendry returned the kick, enjoying the wince Jon made, but tried to mimic him as well as he could.

“Is the taste to your liking?” Lord Stark asked.

“It’s very good m’lord,” Gendry replied, trying to ignore the faces Arya was making at Bran. “Thank you for the food and, uh, the room and, umm, everything…” he trailed off inelegantly, flustered.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he assured, but Gendry had a very hard time believing that.

“You know, venison prepared this way is a favourite of Robert Baratheon. Though Robert prefers above all to hunt his game himself. ”

“You know the King!?” Gendry blurted out, immediately feeling stupid. Of course Lord Stark would know the King, Robert Baratheon, being a powerful lord himself – even if he did not seem to act like one. The highborn in the capital that Gendry had had the misfortune of meeting always turned their noses up away from him; none of them would have allowed him to step near them, let alone invite him into their home to dine with his family.

“Aye, I know him  _very_  well,” the man said, amused.

“Father and the King are the greatest of friends, as close as brothers!” Robb Stark piped up proudly from his mother’s side. “Father even named me after him.”

Oh. Well of course Lord Stark and the man who lived in the Red Keep were best friends,

“It’s been eleven years since he was crowned but he’ll always be Robert to me, the young man who singlehandedly turned half of Jon’s hair grey,” Lord Stark spoke fondly.

Gendry turned to Jon confused.

“Lord Jon Arryn’s hair, not mine,” Jon informed him from across the table, subdued. “Lord Stark and His Grace lived with him in the Vale.”

“Did you ever meet the King in the capital?” Robb asked.

“No… uhm, he lived in the Red Keep and… uh, I didn’t,” he replied, too embarrassed to tell the boy outright about his origins.

Robb’s face fell into a disappointed frown.

“But I saw him once!” Gendry hurried to correct himself, pleased to see the interest return to the young heir’s face. “He looked very strong and big, with black hair, blue eyes. There were white knights around him and gold cloaks had to push people away so that they could ride to the Red Keep.” The memory was one of the only ones he had of his mother. He remembered her hands holding his firmly and trying to push her way through the many people to get to the King. They had gotten very close to him, and his mother screamed  _“Your Grace!”_ over and over again, but her voice got lost in with the rest of the sounds and he rode past.

Robb tried fishing for more information but there was nothing more he could provide. Supper ended before Gendry could begin to ask about his father’s identity, the man sweeping away with a pair of giggling children thrown over his shoulders.

“Come on Gendry, we have to wash before bed,” Jon nudged from the side. Gendry followed him out of the Great Hall and into the Great Keep, through the same set of complicated corridors that led to their rooms. Gendry realized that halfway but Jon reminded him that they needed fresh clothes to switch into after they were clean.

People in Flea Bottom did not really bathe themselves. He had never kept track of when, but at some points the kind septon would come with buckets on a cart filled with water collected from somewhere, order them to strip and then up-end it over their heads. The storms had a similar effect. But never bathing. That had begun on his journey North, when Harwin or his minder would take a wash in the streams alongside the Kingsroad. Once, at the inn at Moat Cailin, Harwin had paid a little extra to be able to bath in warm water. That had been a very nice experience, one Gendry had made sure to thank the older man for.  _“’Thank Lord Stark,”_ he had said,  _“We’re spending his coin. ‘sides, the inn is new and needs all the support it can get.”_

A servant helped them start the fire to heat the water, but they had to carry the buckets themselves to fill up one of the big wooden basin used by the men-at-arms, other male servants and Jon.

“Robb and the others have copper tubs of their own. When we were really young the servants used to bathe us together, but now I bathe here with the other men,” he told him with a longing lilt to his voice, body submerged.

“You’re not man, you’re a kid like me!” Gendry replied.

“How old are you? When is your name day?”

 “I-I don’t know…”

“Robb and I are both one and ten.” Jon gave him an appraising look. “I would guess your age to be the same or a year less.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Old Nan once said that bastards grow up faster than trueborn children.” Jon mentioned them being a bastard a lot, Gendry noticed. He certainly could not remember even talking about it with his other friends in King’s Landing.

“So we are both men then!” Gendry said and sent a splash of water into the boy’s face, causing him to sputter. Jon retaliated and it quickly deteriorated from there. Water was splashed everywhere, a servant scolded them for the mess and how slippery the stone floor was made by it, but they both went to sleep with smiles on their faces.

-x-

The next day Jon woke him from his slumber. He was very reluctant to part from the bed, which had provided him the his most comfortable sleep since, well, ever. The grumpiness quickly disappeared when faced with the delicious smells coming from the Great Keep. Rashes of bacon, eggs, buttered toast and more; Jon pointed out to him, a little more conversational without Lady Stark there. Lord Stark had been there, but he spent the breaking of his fast distracted by stacks of parchment and the writing of important looking letters, so no one bothered him. Theon and Robb were also there, but not Sansa or the others.

Bellies full and content, the four of them made their way to the maester, a man who knew a lot and helped the Lord of Winterfell in different ways. Counted among his many tasks was the tutoring of his Lord’s children and wards, a group of which Gendry now was part of.

The maester was waiting for them in the library, a big room with shelves stacked with books from the floor to the roof all on end. Gendry had never seen so many books. But then again, that was hardly new. The man himself, Luwin, was old, dressed in grey and wearing a chain of different metals. He immediately sent the other three away by giving them various tasks.

“Theon, your multiplications need work so work on the problems in this book, from chapter nine to ten. Robb and Jon, work on your High Valyrian, where you left off last time. Be diligent in your work; I will know if you weren’t when I come by to check your work.”

Then, with the three others sent off and lost behind the many shelves, he turned his attention to Gendry.

“Hello, young man. My name is Luwin and I am the maester here at Winterfell.”

“Hello…”

“Lord Stark has asked me to teach you alongside the other boys. As you have not received an education previous to this, we will spend these mornings focusing on teaching you your letters and sums, just you and me. I will also teach you the sigils, starting with the North. I have just begun teaching the others the sigils of the Vale, but when they are finished you will join them when I teach them of the houses of the Stormlands. Will that be alright?”

Most of what the man had been saying since Gendry stepped into the room went over his head, but he nodded anyway.

“Good, now let us begin with the first letter of the Common Tongue’s script, ‘a’…”

-x-

Four hours, a heavy belly and an even heavier head later, the boys were making their way from the Great Hall to the courtyard, where Ser Rodrik would be training them.

The maester had started off their first session with high expectations of Gendry, if not in knowledge then at least in discipline in motivation. He was a strict tutor, but he also seemed fair and made sure to give praise when Gendry deserved it.

At the end, Jon had shown him his work and Gendry had despaired. He had struggled mightily to learn to recognise a handful of letters, while Jon was already writing long sentences in a language not even used in Westeros. And apparently, he was really good at it too.

_“High Valyrian is good to know because of the large body of works written in it, as well as the need for a neutral language for highborn and very wealthy merchants to be able to communicate without interpreters. Jon learns it because Robb has to, and only beyond a basic level because he has taken so well to it. Not to worry, Gendry. Being able to read and write in the Common Tongue of Westeros will serve you very well as far east as Volantis and Qohor, should you ever wish to tour the Free Cities.”_

“Man, Luwin can be such a slave driver. My ears hurt from all that stupid scolding of his.”

“You should have heeded his warning, Theon, and worked harder” Robb stated, like Theon shying away from doing the work was a common.

“It’s unfair though, why was I the only one to get talked down like that? I saw how that book bore you to tears and how little you wrote down – if you weren’t the heir, you would’ve gotten a dressing down too!”

“It has nothing to do with me being heir, and everything to do with you fantasising about the milkmaid’s daughters in the yard! All you do is-is chase their skirts and think with that little thing in your breeches!” Robb erupted, indignant.

“Oi!” Theon said, looking insulted. “I’ll have you know It’s not a  _little_  thing. I’ve got my very own leviathan down there!”

Robb levelled him with a non-amused look, before chuckling despite himself. Theon laughed, and even Jon joined in with a snort, though Gendry didn’t understand.

“I wasn’t talking to you, bastard,” Theon snidely said and rolled his eyes at him, taking Jon’s snort as an insult. Jon adopted a brooding air and gave him a glare.

“Hey we’re here now!” Robb interrupted before they could come to any blows. Gendry wondered why he didn’t rush to defend his brother, since the older teen acted like a bully.

Ser Rodrik stood before them, looking serious but a little ridiculous with his facial hair. Gendry recognised him from the day before when Harwin had pointed him out.

“Gear up boys!” he ordered, gesturing to the padding he had already brought out from the armoury. They did so quietly, Jon and Theon staying away from each other.

“You three, go practice at the archery range ‘til I call you back,” the man ordered and for the second time that day, Gendry was left alone with a tutor.

“The name’s Ser Rodrik Cassel. I watched you practicing with Jon yesterday from afar. Show me your stance.”

He moved his feet, turned his torso slightly and brought up his wooden sword.  Ser Rodrik circled him, pushing and prodding his body at certain places with his practice sword. Gendry was pleased that he did not have to correct him that much.

“There, that’s not too shabby. Show me what he taught you.”

Gendry acquiesced and showed him the swings and lunges his body remembered, many of which Gendry had been at the receiving end of.

Ser Rodrik had something to comment on for him to improve when it came to every one of the moves he displayed, but all his criticism made sense to Gendry. He could feel himself be faster and stronger in his movements for every advice the man imparted.

At some point he stopped Gendry and brought the others back. They did some warmups that Gendry half-heartedly followed, feeling the sweat run down his temple at the exertion.

“Robb, Jon,” the master-at-arms called out. “Spar.”

The brothers fought equally well, Gendry noticed, though they differed in how they fought. Where Robb was physically bigger and stronger, Jon was faster and cleaner in his movements. Jon could better duck and weave away from Robb’s strikes, but Robb absorbed more of the hits against his shield. They were equally matched, until Jon made a feint that the auburn-haired boy fell for which allowed him to get a hit in on Robb’s side.

“That’s enough! The match goes to Jon.”

Robb took his defeat graciously, giving his brother a smile that was returned.

“Theon and Jon now,” Ser Rodrik called out. Then, considering, he added, “Gendry, you can be Robb’s opponent this time.”

The instructor most likely meant for them to fight each other in pairs, but somehow it ended up becoming two vs two when Jon pulled Gendry aside, and the other two gravitated towards each other as well on the other side.

“He’s stronger and bigger than you, but he’s weak on his left side.” With that said, they both walked forward into “the pit”, Robb and Theon standing side-by-side opposite them.

“That is not what I meant...” Ser Rodrik protested, but did not try to stop them either.

Theon was the first to move, coming at him with an overhead swing that Jon blocked and diverted it with his shield. He went to retaliate, but Robb chose that moment to make a swipe at Gendry, so he used the momentum to crash his sword against Robb. That placed him in front of Gendry, available to be hit by both of their opponents.

Two on one should have been impossible odds for Jon to face but he managed to pull it off, briefly. The other boys came at him but they were hardly smart about it. Instead of coming at him from different sides, they attacked him from the front. Also, when they attacked, they were far from coordinated and even interfered with each other as their shoulder bumped, or Jon parried their strikes into the other. It was brilliant, Gendry felt, but it did not last for long. They realised their folly and gave each other space. Gendry also decided to step into the fray, refusing to watch on while Jon fought his battles for him. That would be craven, something he refused to be.

Theon was once again the first to move. Jon made the mistake of falling into a textbook block. His opponent was taller and bigger than him, being more than four years older. In other words, the bastard had unfortunately gotten caught in a bout of strength he had no chance of winning. So naturally, Gendry made to help his friend, only he was stopped by Robb.

“Your opponent is me!” he said pompously, in Genry’s opinion. With a great yell, he charged at the heir of Winterfell. Robb did not seem to be intimidated by the sound, meeting him head on.

The world disappeared around Gendry. The only thing that mattered was defeating his foe, seeing him broken at his feet. Jon needed his help! Still, thoughts and wants could not do him much without the skill to back it up against someone with Robb’s lordly training. It showed too, to anyone watching, that his onslaught of hits and repeated war cries were not netting him any gains. It did more to tire him out than  Robb, really.

Then, for one second, Robb was distracted by something out of his vision. When he brought up his sword to block, he left himself exposed and Gendry’s sword hit right at his hand. The sword flew out his hand with a cursed yell, and he was right open. Before he could comprehend or even try to stop himself, his arms and body moved forward, training sword smashing right into Robb’s face, making a loud cracking sound. Knocked out, he crumpled into a heap on the sandy ground.

“ROBB!” a shrill voice screamed, rushing past in a whirlwind of red hair and blue fabric. His senses began to encompass the rest of the world and he realised abruptly what he had done. The woman, Lady Stark, was on her knees in the mud leaning over her son.

“Robb!” she sobbed. She brought her hands up, covered in red. Blood. Robb’s face was all covered by it, a red mess that Gendry had made.  Gods-  

“My Lady!” Ser Rodrik yelled, rushing forward from where he had been keeping an eye on his other charges, who had stopped their own fight to see what was going on. “Please Lady Stark, allow me to take a look!”

Jon and Theon’s stares, the sight of blood pouring from Robb’s face, the woman’s panicked screams – it became all too much for Gendry, so he ran away.

-x-

There were many places he could have ran to from the courtyard – most prominently, the gates – but the Godswood had been the closest, and he had only wished to disappear. His feet had carried him deep into it, past the sinister weirwood tree to some area he had not recognised.

Picking the first best spot, a moss covered rock, he plopped himself down and put his face in his hands. Then he wept. He wept, because he was just a boy from Flea Bottom who had no business being in the North, let alone in Winterfell. No business whatsoever. Now the Lord Stark would definitely have cause to send him away, or worse, having disfigured his son’s face. They could beat him to death, to make him feel the same as Robb; or they could flog him, whip him, and even set their dogs on him. Perhaps they would throw him into their dungeons and leave him there to wither away like the children who had starved to death.

A rustling sound came from behind the canopy where he came from, making him stand up and curse himself for wasting time crying when he could have been doing something else, like trying to find a way to escape without being caught. But instead of a big burly Northerner, it was a small woman. Small and very old.

“Hello,” she greeted, stepping into the little clearing. She greeted him, but her attention seemed to be on the nature around them.

“H-hello,” he greeted back.

“Are you lost, boy?” she asked absentmindedly, walking slowly over to check on a tree.

“No, I’m…” he trailed off. She took a good look of him, noticing the padding he had yet to shed.

“Oh, you’re the new child, from the capital down south…”

“I…” he considered lying, but decided against it. “I am.”

“Do you have a name, boy?”

“My name is Gendry.” She did not look our sound like a lady, so calling her one would be amiss.

“The other children called me Old Nan. I’ve been Old Nan for a long time now, even when Lord Stark was simply little Ned.”

Oh, so this was the Old Nan Jon had been talking about. Well, she had certainly lived up to her name.

“Now, child, tell me, what happened?”

“I wasn’t crying!” he tried to deny but his voice was thick with emotion.  He was convincing no one.

Old Nan chuckled and carefully made her way to him, taking a seat on an adjacent stone.

“Do you want to hear a story, Gendry? I’m good at telling them, you see.”

No, he wanted to say. He should be runningSaway instead of listening to the crone in front of him.

“Have you ever heard of Ser Duncan the Tall?”

“No…” he admitted.

“He truly was tall, just an in inch away from seven feet. We have some tall men in the North, the Umbers chief among them, but he would’ve looked down on them all the same. He came to Winterfell once, you see, a long time ago, with his squire Egg. But years before he went by  _Ser Duncan,_  he was  _Dunk_ , a boy from Flea Bottom…”

And so Old Nan continued, telling her tale. She had him hooked and he soon began to forget that he was supposed to be making an escape. In his defence, Ser Duncan’s life story was not only incredible but also happened to shared striking similarities to his own: they both grew up in Flea Bottom without fathers, and they both had been thrown into the lives of the lords and ladies of highest rank. Furthermore, Old Nan was a masterful storyteller, painting vivid images with words alone, and knowing just which details to put emphasis on and which parts to gloss over.

“…and that’s how Ser Duncan and his squire, by accident, helped foil the second rebellion of the Blackfyres.”

“Tell another story! Please!” Gendry pleaded.

“No, no more today,” she refused, giving him a toothless smirk at his defeated face. “I need to go see my Walder. But you stay here. The Godswood is a sacred land intended for contemplation and prayer, something you seem to be in need of.” She stood up, briefly accepting Gendry’s helping hand and shoulder as support, and started to waddle away.

“Don’t think for too long though,” her old rasped from around a green bend. “Lord Stark is certainly no Brightflame.”

No, he was not, Gendry thought, an image of a kind-faced man smiling at him appearing in his mind. According to Old Nan, Ser Duncan had publicly defied the mad Prince Aerion Targaryen as a lowly hedge knight. He could harden his resolve for this.

-x-

When he left the Godswood and came out into the Courtyard and within sight of the inner walls, he was relieved to note that there did not seem to be a great manhunt for him. But then a guard came out of nowhere and told him that the Lord was requesting his presence. Gendry had gulped and acquiesced, following dutifully as the guard led him to the upper floor of the Great Keep where Lord Stark’s so-called solar was located. He was left outside a set of oaken doors guarded on both side by tall, gruff Northern soldiers who both pinned him down with their stares. He gulped again.

“He’s here, Lord Stark!” The one to the left declared, after giving the door a succession of bangs with his meaty fist.

“Let him through.”

A third gulp.

The solar was an imposing room. The fur of a great animal adorned the floor, while a fire roared in a hearth in a corner. One side of the room was hidden behind a great bookshelf lined with books. The most intimidating aspect of the room was the huge sword resting against the wall opposite of the entrance, by Lord Stark’s side. Seated behind a great desk, which in turn was housing two great tomes and a great many documents, he looked very busy. But when Gendry stopped before him, he put down whatever he had been working on and leaned back in his chair.

“Hello Gendry.”

“M’lord,” he replied timidly. He wanted to look strong in front of the lord, but standing before the man’s piercing grey eyes without even as much as a fidget would be hard.

“What happened in the Courtyard?”

Gendry recounted what happened, though he did not feel there was much to tell. They had been sparring, two against two. Jon was being beaten by the much older Theon, making him fight harder against his own opponent. When Robb had gone down a bleeding mess, and Lady Catelyn had come rushing, he had fled in fear.

“Good,” was all Lord Stark had to say.

“W-what?”

“There are many ways you could have explained your side of the events to me. But you were as truthful as you could have been, your story consistent with what the many other witnesses told me, and that is good. Do you disagree?”

“Uhm, no… but what about Robb, m’lord?”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“A broken nose, easily mended by Maester Luwin. My lady wife can be quite… irrational, when it concerns the safety of our children.”

“So… you won’t punish me, m’lord?”

“Punish you? Robb dropped his guard and you rung his head like a bell, rightfully so. You’ve taught him a valuable lesson on getting distracted while fighting. Ser Rodrik would agree.”

“Oh…” So all that worrying had been for nothing then.

“But, Gendry,” Lord Stark said, coming around the desk to stand in front of the boy. “There is a lesson for you to learn as well: there is a great fury within you. Be careful when you let it out. Do you understand?”

“Yes… M’lord,” Gendry replied, though it was not completely true. What did he mean by  _great fury_?

“Good. Also, when it’s just the two of us, you may call me uncle Ned,” Lord Stark said with a wink, making Gendry flustered. It did remind him of a topic he had wanted to broach.

“Lord St- Uncle Ned, who is my father? Why have I never met him? Where is he? Is he dea-”

Lord Stark held up a hand to stop him.

“Your father is not dead. He is very much alive, with a wife, a big castle in the South.”

“Then why…”

“You have seen the way Lady Stark treats Jon, no doubt. Bastards are considered a blight on their father’s honour, and have, on several occasions, threatened their trueborn half-siblings for their father’s keeps and lands. Many choose to send away their bastards to other keeps, if they even acknowledge them in the first place. I have chosen to keep Jon close, as he is my blood, and he loves his half-siblings wholeheartedly. But… I cannot control how Cat treats Jon.”

He leaned back against his desk, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth.

“Your father is a great friend of mine, but he is a fool in many ways. You are far from his only bastard – I know about at least two that he has claimed – but he cannot take care of them. They are kept far away from him, raised by others. One is older than his trueborn children, but a girl. The other one is a boy, but younger than his heir. You on the other hand are both male and older than his heir. Furthermore, you will be receiving a lordly education alongside my other children and ward. That actually makes you a credible threat to his heir. Should his wife and her family discover your existence, they might try to end it. Should I tell him about you, they would surely find out. Should I tell you who your father is, you might let it slip and their spies might find out. Hence, I cannot tell you who he is, until you are wise and strong enough to take care of yourself.”

The explanation contained several shocking revelations. He had siblings? Other, bastard, siblings, alongside his trueborn ones? It seemed a little obvious in hindsight. He was a bastard by definition, and if his father was a lord then he would have a fancy highborn wife and highborn children with her. Highborn children he, the boy from Flea Bottom, was dangerous to? It barely made sense to Gendry’s ten-year-old mind.

Lord Stark (or Uncle Ned?) sighed and returned to behind his desk, steepling his hands in front of his face.

“Your father stayed true when many would have abandoned me. For that I owe him a great debt. Raising one of his sons into a proper man is the very least of what I could do.”

Gendry nodded, not knowing what to say.

“One day you will meet him and your family. But before that, I think you ought to go leave your padding in the armoury, go wash up and get ready for supper. I imagine Jon will be quite relieved to see you,” he said, finishing with a chuckle.

“Yes, m’l- Uncle Ned…”

“Good lad,” he dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first POV character is Gendry, who Ned basically abducted from the streets of King’s Landing.
> 
> One problem I’ve had is trying to write the different ways a Northerner might speak compared to a slumdog from the Crownlands. When I was young, Gendry’s age really, I lived in a poorer area, almost all immigrants, and we spoke using a lot of our own slang. Understanding the terms and expressions used by well-educated adults was slightly difficult at times, though we were exposed to tv, radio and the fine and proper language of our teachers. Since doing it properly for Gendry would unnecessary work, I can only ask that suspend your disbelief when reading the dialogues’ dialect issue. The narration itself, though from Gendry’s POV, is told by me, so I think I can use whatever adult language I want.
> 
> Some quick comments:  
> \- Ned remembered meeting Gendry and obviously felt that it would be a good idea to bring him in. Gendry is ten here, and since he was born in 284 AC the year is currently 294 AC. The other children’s ages are mentioned as well.  
> \- Moat Cailin is mentioned several times here. Bran will inherit it, and not Jon like in many stories.  
> \- Ser Duncan the Tall was a legendary knight of Westeros who died back in 259 AC in Summerhall. GRRM has written three stories told from the POV of Ser Duncan, all of which I recommend that you read. I tried not to spoil anything too much here in this chapter. 
> 
> My inbox has been filled with notifications of followers/subscribers and people putting both me and the story among their favourites. The story is uploaded on both FF and AO3. I haven’t replied to any reviews yet but you can rest assured that I read every single one of them. I’m grateful for all the encouraging comments, and they do help encourage me to prioritise writing this story over other aspects of my life. 
> 
> Some reviews have been speculations or questions regarding the plot. I won’t outright spoil it but I might comment on things in my notes here for all to see. Next chapter will deal with the fate of the Dreadfort and the ancestral Bolton lands.
> 
> One reviewer asked if this story will follow the books or the TV show. That’s actually I really good question, because I read fanfictions of both and I would like ideally to mix them. The books have a lot more material to them, whereas the show has gone further plot-wise. I will most likely include characters and concepts from the book that might not have been included in the show, where I feel like it would be interesting, but I will try to expound on them in the story itself so that show-watchers can understand. AO3 has an interesting feature where you can browse through stories of both types at the same time.
> 
> I welcome helpful reviews and especially corrections, since I do not have a beta and it can be hard to catch your own mistakes.


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